


a celluloid tendency (to flare out and blaze)

by skazka



Category: Scream (Movies)
Genre: Extra Treat, Friends to Lovers, Horror Films, Knifeplay, M/M, Oral Sex, Pre-Canon, ToT: Monster Mash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-20 01:34:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8231554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/pseuds/skazka
Summary: Billy and Stu compare notes on cinema.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kissoffools](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissoffools/gifts).



The VHS player is stalled out hard, whirring on a lit-up screen. He's grinning in the dark, very close.

"Vampire Lovers. Dracula's Daughter. The Hunger. There's tons of lesbos in the horror section. It's twice as many tits. For the dudes, you've got your Fright Night, you've got your Lost Boys…"

"Okay, but sticking to the established classic slasher genre. No shitty vampires. Give me something to work with here."

Just a couple brews and a couple tapes on a Sunday night. Watch a few movies, take a few notes. There's no real risk of interruption down in the Loomis family rumpus room; it must have a whole lot of bad memories in it or something since Mrs. Loomis moved out, because Billy's dad has never come down there once, not even to check on them. They could be doing anything down here, smoking pot and building bombs, or shooting heroin for all anybody knows. Fucking Randy could rattle off a couple more titles, probably, but he's the last person Stu wants to be thinking of right now. It's im-fucking-possible to come up with more entries on the list of homo horror flicks when Stu keeps getting distracted by that fucking mouth. 

"Lots of second-string slashers have a gay angle. Did you ever see The Hitcher on HBO? Or Nightmare On Elm Street 2? Freddy just wants to be _inside_ of him." 

Billy exhales sharply, biting his lip. "Fuck, you're right. Fair enough." 

Stu's wanted this since — who knows how fucking long, since middle school. He can taste his aftershave in the hollow place under his throat where all the veins are and the microscopically fine scrape of stubble is harsh against the inside of Stu's lip. Billy's hand is in past the waistband of his jeans, grabbing for a handful of ass. 

"You saw Cruising. There's some good splatter action in that one, but it's no Exorcist." Stu's rubbing hard against his long legs and chafing against denim so hard it hurts. Billy's hand gropes out blindly for his throat and presses. 

"Hey, fuck you, it was on the wrong shelf. Everybody makes mistakes.." 

The struggle has to sweeten the pot, Billy pressing him hard into the furniture and feeling him kick and complain — half in play and half in anger, rocking his shoulders deeper into the couch cushions and letting Billy in.The hunting knife is right there, and its edge shines red in the VCR-bulb light. Right within his grasp, easy. He wouldn't even have to roll over.

Loomis' palm is sticky against his throat; Stu's voice comes out sandpaper-hoarse. "Hey. Hey, Billy. Hey, Billy, _hips or lips?_ " 

"Fucking closet case," he groans from somewhere very near Stu's chest. The knife is in his hand now.

"Look who's talking. You," he says breathlessly, "are a very sick boy, Billy Loomis."

The blade of the knife presses upward against his stomach, hard enough to dent flesh and to trace a line between the top button of his jeans and his navel. He can only bite his lip and watch and wait for _something_ — for the big kill, for the moment when the tension breaks and the music spikes. He's waiting for the spray of corn-syrup blood, realer than real, and Billy is laughing, shaking under him in planes of smooth muscle. 

The flat of the blade cuts a track up his stomach. Stu's hand covers Billy's, and the back of Billy's hand is warm — the two of them, acting as one. Going in for the kill. 

"Fuck," Stu says quietly, and he buries the knife into the arm of the couch, slowly. It meets no resistance, just a little yellow spill of foam filling, like guts. Billy sticks out his neck and catches Stu's mouth to suck a beer-flavored kiss.

"All right," he says once they've broken apart, "so that's what you like? This is what gets you off when you're down here in the dark, thinking about slicing up the football team. You're wishing it was you carving off a slice. That's it, huh? This is what she did to you." 

"Stuart," he says, voice welling with love and tenderness and all that gay shit, sharp with laughter, "you need to shut the fuck up." 

And Stu lets him roll him over, then, for the sake of shucking up his pornographically tight sweater and getting his hands on Loomis' back — tracking up hard muscle and feeling it shift under his palms. Sid doesn't know what she's missing. Right now she's safe and sound in a flannel nightie, maybe listening to music, maybe hitting the books for Monday's English test, and she's not even thinking about where her boyfriend is. He tries to think of Sidney Prescott getting railed down here — Miss Sweet and Pure getting bent over the arm of the couch that's now oozing foam rubber like a sore, Billy giving it to her hard, whether she'd squeal. Why's that girl so scared of a good time? Jesus.

Billy's teeth snag his bottom lip; Stu is gasping, laughing, lurching back with the veins throbbing in his throat. 

"Wait, wait, wait, wait."

Billy slides down onto the floor and onto his knees, tugging for his zipper with gritted teeth, not bothering to look up — Stu's hips lift a little without him intending it, like he's running on automatic, and he shucks down his boxers, dumbfounded.

If the guys at school could see this — it'd _still_ be Stu on the hook somehow, Billy would still manage to make this look good on him, make it look careless and easy and like he didn't give a shit. Nothing like a girl. He's good at making all of this look natural, and all Stu can do is follow his lead. Hell, Tatum's a sweet girl, but she gets on his fucking nerves sometimes. She's not the kind of person you can see yourself really going down in the history books with. Billy is something else.

Nobody knows Billy Loomis like Stu knows Billy Loomis. He's told him everything — about home-wrecking town tramp Maureen Prescott and what she did, about Cotton Weary, about all of it. They've already had their dry run, the dress rehearsal before the cold-open on poor little Casey Becker. He's the only one who knows what this means to him — He knows all his secrets, all his soft secret places and his bleeding wounds under wraps. Nobody can replace him when it comes to that knowledge. Nobody can outshine him. The two of them are going to be immortal. It feels like being part of something, like finding a cause, only their cause is mass destruction, their motive is _no motive; nobody could have known; they were such **nice** boys_. In the real world, if you want to get back at your cheating old man and your fickle bitch mom, you don't carve up the whole town. This part isn't revenge; this part is for fun. Fuck motive. If they do it right, nobody will _ever_ know why.

Stu cups one hand against his face and rubs at his wet shining bottom lip, his thumb pressing past Billy's teeth until he bites down and Stu withdraws. That much is too much. He won't push his luck.

Nobody else is ever going to see him like this. Billy licks his lips and gives him a real Stanley Kubrick murder stare, then begins.

His mouth is impossibly slick and tight, the scrape of his teeth has got to be calculated for maximum sensation on the very brink of actual factual pain — like the web of his hand pinching tight around the base of Stu's cock, the pad of his tongue grazing across the head of Stu's dick with cruel deliberation, finding the slit and playing with it so hard it hurts.

"Fuck," Stu groans against the side of his balled-up bitten hand, "I like the way you do that—"

Must've learned it from a videotape. Stu can't keep his hands out of his hair, gripping and twisting just hard enough to hurt him — Loomis breaks away for a second to swear in the dark and gives him a hard jostle. He wants to fuck that mouth raw. But Stu's not dealing with somebody's cheerleader-chick girlfriend who thinks he's _funny_ and _different from the other guys_ and who's nevertheless gagging for it, never mind that you shouldn't be screwing around when a slasher's on the loose and you really, _really_ shouldn't be letting him suck your cock—

His breath is beginning to come irregularly now, from high in his chest, and as Loomis' mouth works and gouges against him Stu starts thinking of pointedly unsexy things. No big, long, sharp knives. No braless co-eds. No shrinkwrapped jeans and tight asses. Everything's G-rated — nature documentaries and Disney films, Bambi nuzzling up to Snow White. The shitty part of the video store. Billy's just teasing him now, tugging at his balls with huge dark murder-eyes flashing up at Stu from under the ledge of his hips. That look, that fucking look. 

When he comes it's sharp and hard, unreeling. when he's all wrung out that doesn't stop Stu from pulling him in close, hips against sore hips, and grinding against him with all the advantages of height on his side. Somebody might notice that, out of all the constellation of little differences between them — but fat fucking chance, with ten inches of antimicrobial steel sticking out of their guts. Billy and Stu are home free. 

Once he's started on him he won't quit, until he's wincing and edging back down into the couch, pulling at his jeans with agitation. Billy's hard in his jeans and Stu jerks him off right through the fabric like they're a couple of fourteen year olds surprised in the boys' bathroom at a school dance. The indignity of it isn't lost on him — he's spitting and snarling even as his body arches and Stu can feel it when it happens, something... snapping. 

"You came for me. Holy shit." 

"You're such a douchebag."

Stu echoes him in a mocking voice that strains his throat. In his own voice he says, "You sound just like Tatum right now."

"Yeah? I bet she never did this to you." Billy sticks two fingers in his mouth and withdraws them, slick and chemical. And he swipes across Stu's mouth, and what do you know, he's right — the flinch of grossness is immediate but Stu's tongue stretches out to take it, the faint smudge of spit and come, both together. He shudders with laughter, shaking his head and feeling the sweat prickle at the back of his neck. 

"You know, you're all right, Loomis." He clasps the back of Billy's head and they bump foreheads a little, like a job well done.

They've killed and gotten away with it. They'll kill again and get away with it too, until Billy's satisfied or until the pair of them get bored. Whatever comes next is just the bright red sticky cherry on top.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Mountain Goats' "Song For Tura Satana". 
> 
> I've been wanting to write you something for this pairing for ages and this year I finally got the chance! Thank you so much for your killer prompts, and happy Halloween!


End file.
